But the man only winked, and, significantly pointing the thumb of his left hand over his sinister shoulder, backed the horse.

“Vell, I’m blessed,” exclaimed Mr. S.—­and so he was—­with a scolding wife and a squalling infant; “and they calls this here a trust, the fools! and there ain’t no trust at all!”

And the poor animal got another vindictive cut.  Oh!  Mr. Martin!—­thou friend of quadrupeds!—­would that thou had’st been there.  “It’s all my eye and Betty Martin!” muttered Mr. S., as he wheeled about the jaded beast he drove, and retraced the road.

A RIMAROLE—­PART II.

“Acti labores sunt jucundi”

The horse is really a noble animal—­I hate all rail-roads, for putting his nose out of joint—­puffing, blowing, smoking, jotting—­always going in a straight line:  if this mania should continue, we shall soon have the whole island ruled over like a copy-book—­nothing but straight lines—­and sloping lines through every county in the kingdom!

Give me the green lanes and hills, when I’m inclined to diverge; and the smooth turnpike roads, when disposed to “go a-head.”—­“I can’t bear a horse,” cries Numps:  now this feeling is not at all reciprocal, for every horse can bear a man.  “I’m off to the Isle of Wight,” says Numps:  “Then you’re going to Ryde at last,” quoth I, “notwithstanding your hostility to horse-flesh.”  “Wrong!” replies he, “I’m going to Cowes.”  “Then you’re merely a mills-and-water traveller, Numps!” The ninny! he does not know the delight of a canter in the green fields—­except, indeed, the said canter be of the genus-homo, and a field preacher!

My friend Rory’s the boy for a horse; he and his bit o’ blood are notorious at all the meetings.  In fact I never saw him out of the saddle:  he is a perfect living specimen of the fabled Centaur—­full of anecdotes of fox-chases, and steeple-chases; he amuses me exceedingly.  I last encountered him in a green lane near Hornsey, mounted on a roadster —­his “bit o’ blood” had been sent forward, and he was leisurely making his way to the appointed spot.

“I was in Buckinghamshire last week,” said he; “a fine turn out—­such a field!  I got an infernal topper tho’—­smashed my best tile; tell you how it was.  There was a high paling—­put Spitfire to it, and she took it in fine style; but, as luck would have it, the gnarled arm of an old tree came whop against my head, and bonneted me completely!  Thought I was brained—­but we did it cleverly however—­although, if ever I made a leap in the dark, that was one.  I was at fault for a minute—­but Spitfire was all alive, and had it all her own way:  with some difficulty I got my nob out of the beaver-trap, and was in at the death!”

I laughed heartily at his awkward dilemma, and wishing him plenty of sport, we parted.

Poor Rory! he has suffered many a blow and many a fall in his time; but he is still indefatigable in the pursuit of his favourite pastime—­so true is it—­that